


Stitch Glass Spire

by Hermit9



Category: Lucifer (Comic)
Genre: Gen, Ignores the 2015 series, Mazikeen is BAMF, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-02-25
Packaged: 2018-09-26 22:47:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9927533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hermit9/pseuds/Hermit9
Summary: With Lucifer gone, Mazikeen has no liege lord, no war to lead. Boredom does not suit her.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For the /r/fanfiction monthly challenge.
> 
>  **a Random Trope**  
>  Mine was [Exposed to the Elements](http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/ExposedToTheElements)
> 
> \---  
> Many thanks to [FestiveFerret](http://archiveofourown.org/users/FestiveFerret/pseuds/FestiveFerret) and [ashes0909](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ashes0909) for the beta!

Snow rose in eddies and swirls, crystals sharp and cutting in their motion. It wasn’t a blizzard, but it limited visibility nonetheless. Mazikeen pressed on, her presence the only relief in the ice plains of the Antarctic. The clopping sounds of the Pegasus following her were lost to the gale howls of the wind. Her bear fur lined cape was draped over its back, hood covering most of its head. The cold wasn’t really a threat to either of them, but while the Pegasus was no battle steed it was loyal, and cruelty for its own sake was never in her nature. Above them the night was clear, and she could feel the stars, tiny distant flames even now responding to the one bestowed upon her. There was no better navigation. 

The scroll was rolled and protected in her luggage, made of finely weaved kelp and printed with cephalopod ink with gossamer threads and mother of pearl insets. She had studied its markings intently, convinced she would not be able to bring it on her expedition. The patron of this particular excursion had been convinced the lack of a map was the biggest obstacle in her way. It was true that upon the sinking of Atlantis all printed, painted, riddled or otherwise created guides to the lost cities had been destroyed. First by fire and iron, and when those had failed, by incantation and spell. It was not insurmountable. 

The Dreaming had not changed as much as she would have guessed after the wake. The castle was the same grey rocks, with its unfriendly guardians. The Lord Shaper, of course, was much changed. His bright white robes were blinding in their starkness, where he had once been dark and brooding. Mazikeen didn’t care for his approval, but he had smiled when she requested access to the Library. Whatever feud or resentment Morpheus had held against demonkind had died with him. And Mazikeen had never fully shared her Lord’s disdain for him; after all it was the Endless’ action that had spurned Lucifer out of Hell and given her a handful of years at Lux. She was, begrudgingly, grateful for that at least. 

Lucien, in contrast, had been very enthused. She figured the librarian did not showcase his collection all that often. The Dreaming held all the books that have not been written, the maps only imagined in fever induced haze. Pristine, perfect and preserved in the vast collection. Mazikeen had ignored the way the shelves had shifted around them, bringing to attention the volumes bearing her name. Treaties of war and tactics, and the slim book of poetry. Lucien was tactful enough (or perhaps more simply sufficiently cowed) not to mention them.

Mazikeen stopped walking. The wind-scoured landscape was featureless around her, but the map had been dreamt to allow for the shift in star position over the eternal Atlantean empire. The Pegasus lowered itself to the ground, wings folded against its body. It would wait for her until the death of this universe. Mazikeen secured a rope to the saddle and stepped away. If she was right she should be right in front of her target. She knelt and pressed her bare palm on the ground. The flames of the Morningstar surged through her, her bridewealth of power. The glacier hissed as it melted and parted, until she felt the sudden absence, the emptiness of a cavern and the trembling spell work under the assault of the flame. Mazikeen smirked.

She tossed the rope into the well, grabbing gloves from her bags and running her fingers through the Pegasus mane. She looped the line around her waist and jumped into the hole, rappelling easily from the still soft surfaces. The imprint of her boots broke the smoothness left by the flame. Two meters below the surface the ice shaft stopped and Mazikeen felt the tingle as the shielding spells let her through. She hung suspended at the zenith of a large cavern, surveying the city. The air in the cavern was warm, a combination of the isolating snow cover and a volcanic vent in the furthest reach of the cavern. Sulfur rose from it as well as heat, but she had walked the fields of hell; the scent was almost heartwarming. 

Light filtered down around her, the ice strangely luminescent, highlighting gleaming constructions and delicate architecture. She turned around, swaying and gaining momentum, aiming for the tallest of the spires. On her third swing, she hooked her knees over the railing and tied off the rope. 

The spire towered several stories above the mosaic decorated square of the city center. Mazikeen vaulted over the railing, stretching until her boots touched the wrought iron of the large stained-glass window that covered most of the building’s facade. She planned to use the wrought iron as handholds to make her way down. That was, until her right hand brushed against the window proper. 

It wasn’t stained-glass, she realized in the moment before the wave hit her. It was stitch glass, the ever bright colors weaved from emotions and crashing upon the shores of her mind. Awe, respect, order, joy, satisfaction, subservience. Love. Exquisitely detailed, framed and woven so that it would broadcast peace and calm over the city and pacify the inhabitants. Beneath the onslaught of the stitch glass Mazikeen felt the darker tendrils, power and spells awoken by her presence. They brushed against her, curious seeking touches - almost caresses. Each took a sip, a nibble, a parcel of her own power, channeling it down to fuel the long still workings of the city. From the edge of her vision she could see flickers of lights; she could hear faint dissonant music. Once, when the city had been bustling and properly alive, the spellwork would have fed from the citizens and visitors, tapping into unused magical potential and preventing flare of temper, or chaos. Now, with only her as a source it was a twisted hungry thing, seeking more and more, consuming, like a carnivorous moth drawn to the Morningstar. 

Mazikeen gritted her teeth and pulled her hand away, fighting for each centimeter. She pulled herself back up to the railing, carefully avoiding the glass. Bile rose in the back of her throat, the nausea a reaction to the invasion of her mind. Now that she was aware of it, she could see the stitch glass on the other buildings, the threads of it over the city, colors glinting in the flickering light of her stolen strength. 

She wished she still had words to use as curses, so that she could curse the weaver for making the glass. Or maybe the map, or herself, for the lack of foresight. She pulled herself up the rope, toward the cold, clean air of the surface. Her shoulders ached, her breath was short when she reached the surface. The wind had died down, leaving only the stars and the warm concerned breathing of the Pegasus. 

Mazikeen rolled to her back in the snow, allowing the cold to seep up and coat her skin, calm her blood. She really did hate stitch glass. When she could stand with confidence she did so. She shushed the steed, allowing it to scent her as she searched through the pockets and pouches of her possession. In the bottom of the bag she found the smooth red pebble, the self-stone given to her by a human child who had saved her life. She slipped the stone under her clothes, secure and snug against her skin. 

The second attempt down into the city went much smoother. The self-stone insulated Mazikeen from the emotional assault of the stitch glass and without it the draining spells were kept at bay. She could still feel them, like static brushing against her skin, but the debilitating effects were gone. 

She made quick work of climbing down the spire, not enough to risk injuring herself but reaching further and jumping to different handholds. Mazikeen wanted to be done with this place. 

Under the yellow dusting of sulfur, where the melted ice had formed a puddle, Mazikeen could see more of the stitch glass interwoven into the mosaic of the square. Pleasant, orderly colors. She wondered if the citizens had even known what was being done to them, as they lived their lives. If they knew how controlled and manipulated they were by the very city that sustained them. She purposefully ground her heels into one of the exposed seams, gaining grim satisfaction when she heard it splinter and break. 

Her target was on the other side of the square, a small squat building, designed to blend into its surroundings. There were more wards there, weavings for inattentiveness, for the eyes to glaze over. The lock had rusted with time, she barely had to push at the door for it to break and flake away. There was a staircase leading down made of simple polished black stone. Evidently, the builders had figured that once someone breached the front door,there was no use trying to dissuade further progress. The lower floor was a series of alcoves, artifacts organized and labeled in neat cubicles and categories. Mazikeen glanced over them, making note of interesting items but reached only for the one she had been sent to fetch. The cage was small and delicate, the silver unblemished by the ambient humidity. It looked innocent and harmless. Mazikeen wrapped it in cloth and attached the bundle to her belt, making sure not to let the metal touch her skin.

\---

The room was overly warm and stuffy. It had been designed in the style of an aristocrat’s study, with warm-toned wood and bookcases. But the books were hollow fronts and the decoration reeked of gaudy self-importance, gilded to excess and assaulting the senses. Mazikeen could hear the cars outside the poorly isolated walls; there was a draft to her right, where rodents had made their nest. She wouldn’t mention either.

The buyer was a short man, aged in the way humans age when they indulge in vice and little else. He had looked at her with lust upon their first meeting and her sword hand still itched with the desire to strike him for it. 

“My payment?” 

“Yes, yes, of course.” He opened a drawer on the right side of the desk, reaching for the gold ingot and rubies. Far too eager, almost fumbling in his movements. Mazikeen was glad for the smooth porcelain of the half mask, allowing her face on that side to smirk and express her disgust. She claimed her prize, worthless baubles but one should not work for free. She could have them minted into a gift for Beatrice. She placed the cloth bundle on the desk and stepped away, ready to take her leave.

“How… How does it work?” The man was licking his lips, eyes wide and expectant, his body trembling with excitement. 

“You touch it. Your soul flows into it and is kept safe from harm, from sin and tarnish.”

“That’s it? No incantation or spells?”

“No.” Mazikeen took another step towards the door, stopping with a sigh when he called out after her again.

“May I call on you again, if I have need?”

She turned to face him, standing straight and overtly hostile. She was not a dog to be called. She watched with satisfaction as he recoiled, curling upon himself in the overlarge leather chair. 

“If your prize satisfies me.”

He nodded. “I… I never expected one of your station to be… amenable to such arrangements.” His voice died in a squeak as she closed the space between them, leaning over the desk with a dagger glinting in her hand.

“There is no war for me to lead. No silver city to reclaim. What I do with my time is my own concern, mortal. Staying idle is a death in itself and I will not let her have me that easily.”

She vanished the blade into its sheath and walked away, closing the door behind her with a sense of finality. She wondered briefly if she ought to have warned him that the cage did protect the soul against immorality, but that it also leached all enjoyment from the acts committed afterward. It had been meant as punishment, not as a reward. She exited the building and thought no more about it. The little man could figure it out in due time. She had a library loan to return.


End file.
